


Three Continents, No Compliments

by ChrisCalledMeSweetie



Series: Sherlock Kink Meme Prompt Fills [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Sex, First Time, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 08:09:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13244100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChrisCalledMeSweetie/pseuds/ChrisCalledMeSweetie
Summary: Written for this prompt on the Sherlock Kink Meme:John must have gotten his nickname after having got people on three continents into his bed, Sherlock thinks after their third sexual encounter. But to get someone into bed and to actually provide any sexual satisfaction are two very different things, because while Sherlock might not have had quite so many partners, he does know what constitutes good sex, and this isn’t it (and Sherlock is fairly certain that whoever John bedded before him can testify to that simple fact). A fic in which John earned his nickname because of his charms rather than his (frankly appalling) technique in bed.





	Three Continents, No Compliments

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Iwantthatcoat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/gifts), [May_Shepard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/May_Shepard/gifts).



Sherlock was surprised. Not just surprised, but disappointed. Not just disappointed, but, frankly, appalled.

 

John Watson — John _‘Three Continents’_ Watson — was lousy in bed.

 

Well, John’s continent count may have been three, but it was now painfully clear that his compliment count must have been zero. Or less than zero. What was the opposite of a compliment? Constructive criticism? Caustic contempt? Complete condemnation?

 

Sherlock looked back with regret on all the time he had wasted sabotaging John’s dates, when he could have just waited for John to charm his way into their beds, to which, after one encounter, he’d never have been invited to return. 

 

How could Sherlock’s deductions have been so wrong? He had been sure that John — with his vastly greater experience — would be a skillful lover. In fact, this was one of the reasons he’d had for resisting the temptation to act on their mutual attraction earlier: Sherlock had been afraid that his own inexperience meant that he would be unable to measure up to John’s standards in the bedroom.

 

But — _shock, horror!_ — John apparently had no standards. 

 

His technique (if one could call it that) was sloppy and rough — and not in a good way. He kissed like a Saint Bernard who’d gotten into the keg of brandy tied around its neck: all uncoordinated movements, lolling tongue, and copious amounts of drool. Sherlock thought it couldn’t possibly get worse, but then John pushed him down on the bed, humped his leg a few times, and came with an unattractive grunt before rolling over and going to sleep.

 

And he snored.

 

Sherlock tried to give John the benefit of the doubt. Although bisexual, John had been with many more women than men. And the first time with any new partner was often awkward. Surely the next time would be better.

 

But it wasn’t.

 

It didn’t end quite as quickly, of course, but that actually made things worse. More time for John to slobber on him, and paw at him as though he’d forgotten he had opposable thumbs. More time for John to rut against Sherlock’s leg in a completely selfish manner, lined up in such a way as to ensure that only his own cock received any friction, and Sherlock, still mostly soft, was left entirely to his own devices. And as soon as he’d grunted his way through his own orgasm, John once again rolled over and fell asleep, leaving Sherlock distinctly unsatisfied.

 

Something had to be said.

 

Sherlock, however, couldn’t for the life of him imagine what that should be. 

 

“John, we need to talk.” 

 

“John, saliva is meant to be swallowed, not employed to drown one’s partner.” 

 

“John, perhaps the next time we have sex you might consider involving me as more than a masturbatory aid.”

 

No. It was impossible. Sherlock could not bring himself to say anything. He’d just have to _show_ John what he liked.

 

The next evening, Sherlock tried. He really did. But John was like a runaway train on a straight-line track to his hometown of Droolhumpensnore. 

 

Enough was enough.

 

If Sherlock had only been in it for the sex, he would have given up by now. But, god help him, he loved John. He’d been _in love_ with John for months. And he’d be damned if he’d let John’s utter lack of finesse in the bedroom ruin what was otherwise a very promising relationship.

 

Sherlock hated to do it, but desperate circumstances called for desperate measures. He fired off a text to the one person he knew who could help him.

 

Irene Adler’s reply came almost immediately:

 

_Don’t worry. I’ll whip that boy into shape, and then I’ll turn him over to Major Sholto for some Basic Training with the relevant equipment. I guarantee that when we return him to you in a fortnight, he’ll be ready, willing, and able to please._

**Author's Note:**

> Kind comments and kudos make me smile - and might even inspire me to write a sequel. ;)


End file.
